Dagger and Scythe
Page 5
Scythe kept her weapon at max length and set it against the statue base next to her as she watched the stars. She didn’t have to wait long for Dagger.
She heard the bushes rustling and saw him appear from the tree line. He hadn’t bothered with the road as she had. The vest and cloak were disheveled. Apparently, he’d come straight from the city through the woods.
Scythe watched as he searched the graveyard and spotted her. His hands balled into fists, and he forced a breath. He didn’t break eye contact as he stalked around the headstones toward her.
“You could have at least told me you’d left,” he said as he caught up to her, “or a note would have been nice.”
“I knew you’d look here,” she shrugged.
“I’m that predictable, I suppose?”
“In some ways,” she paused, keeping eye contact.
Dagger caught the pause. “Scythe, what did you do?”
“I confronted your sister.” Guilt clawed at her throat again.
His jaw worked in anger. It took him a moment to repeat: “What did you do?”
“I didn’t touch her,” Scythe assured him, “but after I left you by the pillar I noticed the family resemblance and had to be sure.”
“You left her alone after that, right?” His jaw was tense.
“Yes, she actually left the group.”
“Good.” He still wasn’t delighted but clearly forced himself to accept it.
“And then another woman told me how you died.”
He froze and looked away, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t say anything. She had expected him to yell. She would have preferred that to this silence.
Eventually he said, “You know how to get back from here?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Dagger turned and disappeared into the tree line.
Chapter 8
Scythe left her pack in the mausoleum, intending to come back for it later. She hadn’t bothered changing out of the formal dress. She walked through the forest, scythe in hand, and tried to enjoy the cool weather.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Dagger’s disappointment. She could have handled anger and accusations. Instead, he’d grown sullen and stalked off.
It had been the exact opposite of her father. When he grew angry, he’d let everyone know. Their one-room house had become a patchwork of different-colored wood because of how many holes he’d punched through it. It wasn’t just the walls he hit, either. When that man grew angry at the slightest insult, he’d break whatever he could get his hands on. Including his wife and daughter. Back then, she couldn’t fight back but let the blows land until he grew tired. Today, she could do something about it; she could handle that rage from others.
When Maniodes chose her to become an Incruentus Ferrum, she’d chosen the scythe. It was tall and intimidating. It made her feel safe.
Dagger was not going to hurt her, though. She knew that much about him. He was a hunter of the living, but he’d never hit a woman out of anger. Tonight was proof of that. He’d just walked away.
Scythe had no idea what to do now. She’d go back to their estate—she’d have to eventually—but she didn’t know what to say once she saw him again. An apology was obvious, but in her century of being a Ferrum, she’d refused to apologize for anything. Even to Maniodes himself.
She had dug into Dagger’s death when he’d given her space about hers, but this was different.
A light caught her attention as she stepped around a small pool of water. It was a strong, constant light that beckoned an investigation. Scythe seized at the distraction.
Upon closer inspection, she found that the light came from a small cottage. The little house sat nestled among the trees with its own fair-sized barn and a road that led north to the city. The lantern was framed by an open window. Scythe walked right up to the window, not worrying about being seen. She leaned on the staff of her weapon and took in the happy scene before her.
A grizzled man sat beside the lantern at a handmade table, repairing a farming tool with glue. There were other tools scattered around the table waiting to be worked on. The man clearly took care of his effects. In the corner of the cottage by the warm fireplace, a woman with red hair sat in a rocking chair working on a needlepoint project. A bitter taste rose in Scythe’s throat then. The woman held a small resemblance of her own mother.
Something else caught her attention in the firelight. There was a large bruise wrapped around her forearm. It was just starting to turn yellow, but given the size, it had to be an ugly purple at one point. Scythe’s gaze snapped back to the man working on the tools. The only thing that could have made a bruise like that was his hands. She had seen enough of them on her own, as well as her mothers.
There was only one other door inside, probably leading to a bedroom. There were no toys anywhere to be seen, and everything was in its proper place. The couple had no children.
They did have a horse. Scythe had heard the creature’s neigh cut through the night air from the barn.
Scythe approached the front door. She swung the door open, breaking the lock, and paused, letting them take in the scene of a strange woman on their doorstep with long, red hair in a black silk dress carrying a six-foot scythe.
The woman jumped to her feet, dropping her needlework, clutching her chest. The man stood as well but was more composed. He’d kept hold of a trowel to confront the stranger.
“What in the bloody name of Nyx do you want?” he demanded.
“Well, that’s not a pleasant way to greet a guest,” Scythe commented.
“They don’t normally barge in.”
Scythe flipped her weapon upside down and thrust with the base of the staff. She connected with his skull between his eyes, causing a satisfying crack. The man tumbled to the floor, unconscious from the blow. The woman gave an even more satisfying shriek.
“Bind him,” Scythe ordered the woman, as a queen would a slave.
“I-I…please, d-don’t hurt us. P-please leave us be.” Tears streamed from the woman’s eyes.
Scythe spun the weapon again and brought the blade to the woman’s throat. The woman had screamed as Scythe moved but fell silent at the touch of the cold blade.
“I am not in the mood for your weeping and begging. Bind him.”
The woman gave a tiny nod. Scythe removed the blade, and the woman picked a length of rope that hung on the wall.
“Please—”
“Don’t talk,” Scythe ordered. “Hold the rope out from the center.”
The woman did as she was told, whimpering as Scythe cut the rope in half with the end of her blade. The need to hurt was singing in her veins and she loved it. Given the night she just had she deserved a little fun. This woman could provide half of it.
“Now, half again.”
Once the rope was in four pieces, the woman bound her husband’s wrists, crying the entire time.
After the woman cinched the rope around his ankles, Scythe rendered her unconscious as well. Scythe then set her weapon aside and tied up the woman in the same manner.
She left to get the horse.
Chapter 9
Skiachora was as bleak as ever. Dagger picked his way past the dead. He couldn’t remember it, but he had been a wandering grey shade after his mother killed him.
Most people were angry at their killers, but Dagger wasn’t. His mother had been sick for years and steadily grew worse. Her hallucinations usually led to her screaming at blank walls or locking herself in the cellar, claiming demons were coming to eat her. His father had always been able to calm her, but she quickly spiraled into madness after his death.
His father was here. Dagger found him by accident while walking blindly along one of the Acheron’s streams. He couldn’t notice his son, but Dagger had taken some comfort in seeing him. He had been attacked in the streets at night coming home from an outing. Dagger never learned who killed him, but it was probably just a robbery gone horribly wrong.
During the last few months of Dagger’s life, his mother had to be chained to the bed sometimes because of her ravings. The physicians kept her asleep most of the time with tonics, but there was nothing else they could do.
One afternoon in the fall she had woken up perfectly lucid, and the maids helped her sit up. She was confused but calm and asked to see her children. The servants immediately came to Dagger in the library. He dropped the tome he had been studying and rushed up to see her. The brief moments of lucidity never lasted long.
He found her at the window seat watching the birds. She turned and beamed as the door closed behind him. She stood, a little shaky, and opened her arms.
He embraced her frail form gently.
“How are you feeling, Mother?” he asked softly.
“Well enough, dear,” she answered, patting his cheek. “Come sit.”
He guided her to the window seat and sat with her.
“How have your studies been going?” she inquired.
“Just fine.”
They chatted pleasantly for a long time. He had missed their conversations. They talked for hours and had a servant bring them dinner. After eating, they sat at the window again. Then his mother grew quiet and still.
He touched her arm gently. “Mother?”
She didn’t answer; she only stared out the window at nothing.
“Mother?” he urged again.
Her hand flew up and hit the window flat against the glass.
She whispered, “Demon.”
He sighed as dread filled his chest.
“I’ll get the physician,” he told her deaf ears. He patted her arm and stood.
She shrieked.
Dread changed into terror. Turning back, he saw her wide eyes staring at him.
“What are you?!” she screamed.
She didn’t recognize him. His heart raced in panic. The physicians couldn’t be far; they would have heard the scream. He knelt in front of her and took her hands.
“It’s me, Mother,” he pleaded. “Your son, please remember me.”
She screamed and shoved him away. He fell back as she ran over him to the table of leftover food. He scrambled to his feet, then saw her grip a knife.
“Mother, don’t,” he called. She could hurt herself like this; she had before.
She turned on him.
“Stay away from me!” she screamed. “Monster. Demon!”
“I’m your son,” he insisted. He couldn’t stand seeing her like this.
He stepped closer, preparing to take the knife away. She held it with both shaking hands.
She slashed at him.
“I’m not a demon,” he yelled back.
She lunged at him. He tried to catch her arm, but suddenly she was too close, and the knife was inside him.
She ran from him to cower by her bed, whispering. “Die monster, die, die, die, demon, die.”
Her force had broken a rib, but he hardly felt that. The knife was buried hilt-deep, with hot blood pulsing down his chest and stomach.
He couldn’t breathe. The pain was intense; he couldn’t move. He crumbled to the floor, gasping for air around the pain, but blood bubbled past his lips. All his strength was replaced by sharp agony. He could almost envision his heart trying to beat around the sharp metal and finally giving up. He slumped to the floor, cold and numb.
It took considerable effort for Dagger to push the memory away, and even then it lingered in the back of his mind. He remembered the moment Maniodes had awakened him from death too. It felt as if only a moment had passed after seeing his mother cowering by the bed. It was like going to sleep and waking the next morning. He couldn’t remember Nyx coming to him, but none of the other Incruentus Ferrum could either. One moment he was bleeding out on his mother’s rug, the next he was kneeling in front of Maniodes on his throne.
He had never been very pious in his life, but the god didn’t seem to care about that detail. Dagger had thought he was going to be punished in some horrid way, but Maniodes offered him another life. A life to deal out the god’s demands and apply order amongst the living. An order through death.
Dagger had been appalled at first; he had never taken a life. A small thought stuck in his mind before he refused though. His life had been a boring slog of studies to follow in his father’s footsteps. He could forge his own life with this dead one. The god of the underworld was offering him power and a new kind of life so he agreed whole heartedly.
He entered Maniodes’s castle now. It was a beautiful and domineering structure. It sat on an immense rock foundation that floated above the reverse waterfall that fed The Acheron. The only entrance was the split staircase to the Skiachora fields. He walked past the cracked walls up to the god’s chambers. He’d always admired this place and its foreboding feel. He hoped his own little estate could mirror it someday. He had even grown excited for the quirky yet threatening feel Scythe was pouring into the estate. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
Crossing into one of the many corridors toward the god’s office tower, Dagger spotted a small figure coming his way. Dagger waited at the intersection of hallways for the boy. He was about twelve and adorable by normal standards. He had a short crop of blond hair, dark-blue eyes, and olive tones skin. If he hadn’t died so early he would have grown into a handsome young man. He always seemed to have the mindset of a child, though. He’d been an Incruentus Ferrum longer than Dagger, and time had matured him a fair amount, but he was still a child at heart.
The only love this boy would have received, though, would have been from his mother, if she hadn’t died giving birth to him. He never talked much about his father, but he loved to brag about torturing small animals.
Dagger wasn’t sure why Maniodes would choose such a young boy to be his steward. The boy didn’t have much bloodlust for human life, probably because of his young age. It had never set in, so it made him easier to control. Maybe Maniodes took pity on him because the boy didn’t have a mother, either. It didn’t matter what Maniodes’s reasons were. The god needed a new steward, and the farm boy was probably the first grey soul he happened to notice.
“Evening, Pitch,” Dagger greeted as the boy approached.
Pitch was concentrating on not spilling the jug of wine he was carrying. He jumped a bit at Dagger’s sudden appearance but managed not to spill a drop.
“Evening, Dagger. How’s Scythe?” Pitch’s smile lit up his blue eyes. You couldn’t see the raging madman under the innocence unless you knew he was there.
“She’s fine,” he said, using her own words from the wedding.
Pitch walked past him toward Maniodes’s tower, and Dagger followed.
“Did Maniodes give you any jobs yet, little man?” Dagger asked as they walked.
“No,” Pitch replied with a childish pout. “The most I get to do is fetch wine.”
They came to a set of stairs leading up around a stone pillar and began to climb.
“How was the wedding job?” Pitch asked. “That was my idea, you know.”
“It went well,” he said, wishing Pitch hadn’t brought it up. “Wait, you planned that?”
“Aye, he was thinking of a quiet job you two could do. To stay out of too much trouble. I thought attacking the groom indirectly would be a challenge for you both. He was worried it would be too big and exciting, and you’d botch it. He wanted to test you together, so he liked the idea. I’m glad it worked because it looks good for me too, you know?”
“Well, I’m glad it worked out for you, little man,” he said, managing to control his bitterness. It had been a challenge for them, even without Scythe interrogating his sister. Dagger won
dered if Maniodes had picked the kid for his mind.
The landing at the top of the stairs was narrow. The door set into the wall only a few feet from them was made of solid, dark wood and stood nine feet high. The gods could choose how to appear at any moment, and the god of the underworld loved the ridiculously tall size.
A sentry stood by the door. He wasn’t a Ferrum but a simple skeleton in chain mail armor that Maniodes put together. It stood silently watching the entrance, but Dagger knew once it moved, the bones rattling inside the metal armor made a fair amount of noise. Pitch walked right in with the wine, having that right as a steward. Dagger was supposed to wait for the sentry to announce him, but he didn’t bother. He stopped the door from closing on him and followed behind Pitch.
The god of the underworld sat at a large desk made of cast iron. It fit the eight-foot-tall god comfortably; it rose to Dagger’s chest. He hated how small it made him feel.
Maniodes looked up from whatever he was writing. He kept his eyes still, but everyone knew he didn’t like being interrupted. Dagger’s foul mood wasn’t exactly letting him be cautious.
“My Lord.” Dagger bowed, then waited with his hands behind his back, fiddling with a knife. He didn’t intend to attack the god, but he found the knife calming.
“Dagger.”
Maniodes turned to finish his letter. Dagger waited to be acknowledge.
Pitch had stayed still the entire encounter, watching the two surprised. He probably hadn’t expected Dagger to sneak in behind him. Before Maniodes could get angry, Pitch stood on a stool to refill the goblet on the desk.
Dagger watched the kid stand just behind the god, no doubt feeling awkward.
When Maniodes finally finished writing, he set the raven quill aside and regarded Dagger. The god grinned over his folded hands on the desk. It wasn’t a malicious grin, but his eyes told Dagger to be careful.
“Report?”
“It went well. I chose a girl, and Scythe chose her victim. A man, I believe. I didn’t learn his name but I saw them walk off together.”